


It's Okay

by hestia_lacey



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: AU, Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 08:33:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hestia_lacey/pseuds/hestia_lacey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was almost like this with Torren. Almost. But this is Rodney’s daughter, a little piece of the man John… well, a little piece of Rodney, an unknown part that John really needs to understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Okay

John waits until the steady-rhythm, daytime pulse of the infirmary beats down, until the rush and stream of people in the corridors is a stemmed flow.

He waits until sunset clots the hallways and everyone fades into the evening, until evening seeps into night. Almost a full day has passed since Keller went into labour, taking Rodney – anxious and breathing just as hard – with her by the hand. John has waited all that time, hours and hours, so that are no eyes to see him steal in to see the baby.

He feels like a thief in the night, sneaking in under cover of darkness to take a moment he shouldn’t have and shouldn’t want: the baby’s not his, has nothing to do with him, really, but there’s a compulsion, deep-seated and pulling irresistibly strong, drawing him to her.

It was almost like this with Torren. Almost. But this is Rodney’s daughter, a little piece of the man John… well, a little piece of Rodney, an unknown part that John really needs to understand. Because they fit together like a family: John, Ronon, Teyla and Kanaan and Torren, Rodney and then Jennifer and now this new little person too. John isn’t quite sure how where his place is in the new shape they’re forming.

The infirmary is quiet now, absolutely still in the tangible way a place can be after utter chaos, like the shock of clear daylight in the wake of a storm. The hush is a ringing silence, and John breathes heavy and slow and shh despite the way his heart beats because everyone is sleeping here and he doesn’t want to unsettle the peace.

He wants to see her.

She’s sleeping in the nursery, the little room the doctors set up for little miracles like Torren, like her, and John moves towards it in a whisper, soft and unseen.

The room is dark, but it’s a living darkness, the kind that breathes. The windows are draped with long panels fine-woven silk, shot through with silver threads that glimmer in the dark. They look better here than they ever did in John’s quarters. The low nursing chair is covered in blankets that bear Teyla’s family arms, the intricate knots and swirls of her lineage curling out to the tasselled hem of the fabric. On the nightstand John can see the beaded rattle Ronon made when Rodney announced the pregnancy all those months ago; it’s rough and beautiful and purposeful, a good reflection of the craftsman. There are parts of all of them in this room. John really likes the way they look together.

The plastic incubator Jennifer requisitioned seems alien amid the homespun fabric and hand carved wood. As he steps up to the side of it, looks down, John thinks the baby wrapped up in the blankets is foreign too; she’s just so small, so much smaller than Torren was, the smallest person John’s ever seen and yet somehow she’s the biggest thing in John’s universe, the only thing he can see. John doesn’t want her to be so unfamiliar; it’s wrong that he doesn’t know her when she means so much.

She’s sleeping as John steps up to her side. Her perfectly formed, frighteningly tiny fingers are curled loosely into the blankets, the dusky pink pout of her lips is soft and disarming in the shadows. It’s only when he sighs quietly into the dark that John realises he’s been holding his breath, that his hands are shaking, that he’d been honestly nervous about coming here. Looking down at her he doesn’t know why: she’s flawless. The dark silk swirling around her crown is compelling; John traces one delicate eyebrow from nose back to temple, then fits his palm cautiously, so carefully to the curve of her skull. It rests lightly in the curl of his hand, doesn’t feel as heavy as something so important should. Fine strands of hair tickle his palm, fit into his lifeline.

Then she opens her eyes. She opens her eyes and blinks sleepy-slow and John’s heart stutters. Because in the darkness, in the pale starlight seeping in through the curtains, those eyes are bright and blue and unmistakable, and meeting them for the first time is like pitching into open sky, freefall. She gazes up at him, unblinking.

John’s breath catches when she blinks, once, and bats his index finger with her open palm, grasping the fingertip with sure fingers that John recognises with a smile: Rodney’s fingers.

John can’t take his eyes off her.

“Hey,” John whispers, “hey, little girl,” and gets lost in the way she frets in the sheets, the sweet talcum scent of her, those new, familiar eyes.

He’s so wrapped up in the newborn bundle of her that he doesn’t hear Rodney at the door. When he steps soundlessly up to the crib, John starts, jolts the bed, and the baby hitches into startled, anxious sobs that make his heart flutter, his chest ache.

“Shh, shh… sorry,” he says, but before he can reach out to settle her, Rodney is there, gently gathering her up in his arms and soothing her with the drum of his fingers on her back, confident and easy in a way that doesn’t surprise John at all.

After a moment, she settles, turning into the cradle of Rodney’s arms and tucking her fists up beneath her chin. Rodney looks up at John where he stands, stuck, in the middle of the room. Those eyes again, John thinks, breathless.

“Hey,” says Rodney.

“Hi. Uh, sorry,” John says, licking his lips nervously “I didn’t – it was - ”

“It’s okay.” Rodney is looking back down at the baby, smitten, moves closer to John without taking his eyes away from her. John understands: she’s kind of mesmerising. Watching Rodney with her is captivating too: John can’t look away from the picture they make, either.

Seeing them together is better than John ever thought it could be.

“Does she have a name yet?” he asks into the silence.

“Norah Elizabeth. After Jennifer’s mother and… well, Elizabeth.”

John nods. “Norah Elizabeth McKay,” he says, stepping closer still, pressing up behind Rodney’s shoulder to look down at the baby. “Look what you did,” he says, brushing his fingers over the curl of her crown again.

“Yeah,” and Rodney smiles, blinding.

“You did good, Rodney,” John says, and rests his chin on Rodney’s shoulder, reaches down to fold Norah into the fleecy blanket, safe.

He could never have given Rodney this.

John thinks sometimes that if he kissed Rodney, even now, Rodney would kiss him back: Rodney looks at him sometimes and John knows, knows that if he reached up or leaned in he could have what he’s wanted for longer than he even remembers. John thinks about what it might be like if it were Rodney and John instead of Rodney and Jennifer, all the things they might be.

But all he knows for certain is that there wouldn’t be Norah and John is already so in love with her too that the idea of it is unthinkable.

He could never have given Rodney this. But that’s okay, John thinks. That’s okay.

Behind them, John hears Keller talking quietly with Marie and the midwife, and knows his time is up.

“I should - ” Rodney says, gesturing with a tilt of his head.

“Yeah,” John swallows, then turns his head to press a soft, impulsive butterfly kiss to Rodney’s temple. It lingers for longer than it should, but John’s stuck again, can’t move.

Rodney stills at the touch of John’s lips, breathes John’s name in a question. John rests his forehead against Rodney’s and shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he says.

And it is. It really is.

Rodney takes a breath as though to speak, but John can’t hear whatever he’s going to say, not right now, so before he can say anything, John steps back and dips his head to press a kiss to baby Norah’s cheek, whisper, “later, little girl,” and walk quietly away. He doesn’t look back.

It’s okay, he thinks as he waves in Keller’s direction without looking, dodges around Marie into the hallway.

Rodney is happy; he has everything he’s ever wanted, and that’s enough for John, that’s everything.

And it’s okay. It has to be.


End file.
